Clara and The Sky-lark

A LARK had been from youth to age
A little captive in a cage;
But having liberty regain'd,
He ply'd his wings, and unrestrain'd
Enjoy'd the privilege to fly,
Singing, while soaring to the sky.
        Oft pleasure's steps are check'd by woe--
The Lark that secret did not know.--
Nor much his liberty avail'd,
When high in air his pinions fail'd.
Long the time was since he had flown,
His inert wings seem'd scarce his own;

And while he higher strove to soar,
Becoming feeble more and more,
He sunk, he fell--but dire mishap,
He fell into Misfortune's lap.
        A simple lad, devoid of art,
That lov'd a bird's nest at his heart,
What happiness could be prefer'd,
To finding he possess'd a bird?
        The Lark immur'd, in cage once more,
Less felt the iron sway of power;
Finding the joys of freedom vain,
Captivity had charms again;
Security, soft rest, and food,
Seem'd now the most substantial good.
But here again the unhappy Lark
Found he was fix'd for Sorrow's mark.
        The stripling, like a luckless wight,
Made not thraldom a burthen light;
And ev'ry hour, the Lark distrest,
Sigh'd to repose on Clara's breast;

Which, fool like, with little reason,
He thought in former time a prison.
Sometimes he sang, but not a note
Of pleasure fill'd his swelling throat;
'Twas woe, anxiety, and grief,
From which he scarce dar'd hope relief.
        Clara, who since her bird had flown
Little tranquillity had known,
Her favorite sought with anxious care,
Thro' all the village, in despair.
        The Lark, whose heart with grief was wrung,
                
A strain of gratitude now sung,
For Clara's kindness in a state,
Which he regretted nigh too late.
        The song she heard, the note she knew,
And eager to the cottage flew.
        The Lark had been the lad's chief joy--
But what more fickle than a boy?

A piece of gold had charms beyond
The bird, of whom he erst was fond;
And Clara gold consider'd nought,
Could her lost bird by that be bought.
        Again the Lark on Clara's breast
Secure, his wonted joy exprest.
        "No more," the happy creature cry'd,
"Your bird shall wander from your side."
        "Nor I," said Clara, "ere again
"Lamenting, will of fate complain;
"Whatever sorrows may befall,
"Hope shall revive me in them all.
"Pleasure and birds may take their flight;
"Yet both return, and all be right."

MORAL.

Blessings unseen are often nigh,
To wipe the tears from Sorrow's eye.

Original fables by a Lady

Printed by W. Calvert, Shire Lane, Lincoln's Inn, for B. Crosby and Co. London, 1810

To your Royal Highness the following Fables are dedicated, with a wish that in an interval of leisure some transient amusement may be obtained.